Atonement
by r4ven3
Summary: A one shot, two hander, set in S8, two days after the death of Jo Portman. Angsty, but hopeful.


As he stands at her front door, his eyes take in the seediness of the neighbourhood, causing a frisson of guilt to ripple through him. She deserves better than this. She, who on her return to London had had to quickly find somewhere to live, has settled for a small flat on the ground floor of an old 1960's estate, run down and half abandoned. "It's all I can afford," she'd said irritably when he'd commented on the address, leaving him internally kicking himself for his insensitivity.

His suit weighs heavily upon him, the measure of his job, his status. _Status_ , he thought, _what a fucking joke_. His suit is his armour, that which separates him from his team .. from her .. and he hates it, and all it stands for. He'd removed his tie and cuff links, slipping them into the glove box of his car, opening the two top buttons of his shirt, freeing him to draw the chill night air into his lungs.

How often had he dreamed of Ruth making a sudden and unannounced return to London? His private image of her small figure stepping through the gate at Heathrow had been one which, for the three years she'd been gone, had warmed him at night as he'd climbed into bed alone. Never had he imagined her returning with a husband and step son. Not once had he thought of her being brought back to him under such frightening circumstances.

Ruth's return to London could hardly have been worse – for her, for him, for the whole team. That wretched day just over three months earlier will be forever etched in his memory, along with Ruth's cry of anguish as George was shot in the back of the head. No amount of rationalising, no amount of alcohol can extinguish the truth; he is as good as guilty of murder. He had long ago taken her into his confidence, and the price she has paid has been the life of her partner, separation from her stepson, and the loss of her idyllic life in Cyprus. Now Jo is dead, and he is also having to accept responsibility for her death. He had given an order which she had obeyed. As he views it, the fault lies entirely with him.

"I don't want to see you until Monday at the earliest," he'd said to her on the evening of the day Jo had died. Ruth had lifted her eyes, puffy and reddened from the quiet tears she'd shed for Jo outside his office door, her anger held in check only by the sheer weight of her grief. She had dropped her eyes and turned to gather her things from her desk, before leaving without glancing in his direction.

With the clarity that only time can bring, Harry can see that his cold dismissal of her that day would have been viewed as another loss, another rejection, by a woman whose losses were already more than one person should be expected to bear. He had busied himself with phone calls to Jo's parents, the ready platitudes dripping from his lips like melting ice, his responses practised, like in so many other similar phone calls he'd made in the past. He heard himself uttering words like regretful, brave, loyal – adjectives with little real meaning – while at the other end of the phone Jo's mother had sobbed, and her father had shouted at him. He took it all. He believes he deserved every invective thrown at him, as Jo's parents reacted to the senseless loss of their child, another brightly burning candle snuffed out too soon.

Two days later, on Saturday evening, he stands outside her door, his heart heavy, but still hopeful. A glow from behind the curtains in the front room suggests that Ruth is home. He knocks gently once, twice, and then he waits. The door slowly opens, one half of Ruth's face visible between the door frame and the edge of the door. "Oh, it's you," she says without enthusiasm. "What do you want, Harry?"

He lifts the bag containing the tubs of Chinese takeaway, offering her a smile which doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I brought dinner," he says, "and I was hoping you might like company." He is sure he sees her chest heave in a sigh, but she stands back and opens the door, so he steps inside her flat, avoiding her eyes.

Ruth leads him down a short hallway to the small living room, beyond which an even smaller kitchen and eating nook look out over the enclosed courtyard. It is a tiny flat – more than a bed-sit, but smaller than a space she could comfortably call home. Harry decides he should find another flat for her, something larger and brighter, a place worthy of her.

By the time he sits at the table opposite Ruth, she has placed dinner plates, serving spoons, and forks on the table. Since she had opened the door to let him in, she has said nothing at all. They help themselves to the spring rolls, duck in black bean sauce, roast pork, and a large fried rice, and then without the accompanying soundtrack of conversation, they eat. Harry is determined to not break the silence with unnecessary chatter. If she chooses to speak, then he will listen.

He is scraping the last of the fried rice onto his plate when Ruth begins speaking quietly. "You know, while I was in Cyprus, I'd look forward to Saturday nights." Harry looks up to see a smile lifting the corners of her mouth, while she moves the pieces of pork around her plate with a fork, her eyes cast down as though needing to keep an eye on her food. She's eaten very little. "I loved Saturday nights when George worked a late shift at the hospital, leaving Nico and me home alone. We'd eat in front of the telly, and then if it was warm we'd take a stroll along the beach. When it was very warm, I'd allow him to take a dip in the pool, even though his father had forbidden night swimming. Nico was a wonderful swimmer. Like a fish, he was. Later, we'd play a game of Scrabble, or Hangman, and I'd have to let him win." She gives her head a small shake, while smiling down at the food on her plate. Not once has she offered him direct eye contact. "He wouldn't want to go to bed, but I'd insist he be in his room with the light off when his father got home just after 10. George would go into his room to say goodnight, but Nico would pretend to be asleep. It was our little secret .. something we never shared with George."

Harry's eyes never leave her, but not once does she look up at him. It is as though she has forgotten he is there. Feeling the need to acknowledge such a personal disclosure, Harry says, "You miss them .. George and Nico."

For the first time since they'd sat down to eat, Ruth lifts her eyes to his. They are clear eyes, with none of the heavy sadness which had clouded them on the day Jo had died. She gives a small nod. "I miss Nico," she says quietly. "He was .. the reason I stayed .. for as long as I did."

Her words surprise him, and he sits up that little bit straighter. This is not angry and closed-down Ruth. This is Ruth being open and honest. "But you must miss George."

Again Ruth lifts her eyes to his, and Harry witnesses her inner struggle as she decides how best to answer. "I miss Nico the most. I miss George as Nico's dad. He was a good father, and .. a kind man."

Which leaves so much unsaid, with so many more questions to which he requires answers. Dare he? "Are you saying … what I think you're saying?" he asks quietly, his chest overflowing with all the foolish hope of a man in love with an unattainable woman.

They sit quietly for a very long moment, their eyes each on the other. Ruth's mouth is curved in a half-smile. Perhaps she is remembering her Saturday nights with Nico, or even her intimate moments with George. He longs to prompt her to answer, but knows from experience that this will only serve to shut her down. "I imagine you're referring to .. that day .. with Mani, and what it was you asked me ..."

"And which you never answered .. not really."

Ruth drops her eyes and sighs, a sigh of mild frustration .. perhaps with him. When she speaks, she gazes at some point beyond his shoulder. "It was neither the time nor the place, Harry. I was in shock. Only that morning I'd been preparing fish to cook for dinner, and then .." She turns her head slightly, and he sees tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ruth .. truly sorry. I would never have wished this particular .. hell on you. I know you blame me for -"

"I blame you for nothing, Harry."

"But .. you called me a heartless bastard. I saw the hatred in your eyes."

They watch one another across Ruth's small dining table. Both have lost interest in their food. Both know how important is this moment. "That was then," she says. "I did hate you that day .. and the next .. and many more days after that, but then … then I .." She stops speaking, as though drained of the fuel necessary to continue.

Harry waits, but she has dropped her eyes, and he sees pain etched in the lines on her face. "Then what?" That is the moment when he recognises how much he has been waiting and longing for this very conversation. "Please tell me. I need to know."

She lifts her eyes to his and nods. "I know you do," and then her eyes fall to the table. "I might have some wine in the cupboard -"

"We don't need wine, Ruth." He internally kicks himself. He has spoken with irritation. He'd love a wine, but hadn't brought any, fearing the combination of unexpressed grief and alcohol could lead them to uttering words best left unspoken.

Ruth glances up at him, her face unreadable. She sighs heavily before looking away. "You're asking me two things," she says mechanically, "whether I loved George, and whether I still blame you for his death." She looks up to see Harry's small nod of assent. He notices that her forefinger is tracing a repetitive pattern on the table top – a series of circles, some of which intersect each other, while others stand alone. He thinks that odd. Again Ruth sighs.

"You have no need to tell me anything," he says quickly, fearing she may be losing interest.

"I know, and I'm not saying this because you've asked me. What I'm about to tell you is something I .. need to say, and the best person to be hearing this is you."

She waits so long to continue speaking that Harry is sure that somewhere along the way she has changed her mind. Perhaps she has reconsidered, and has decided to keep her private thoughts private. He is preparing for the inevitable disappointment which will accompany her silence, when she speaks.

"My main feeling for George was, and still is, one of gratitude."

"On .. that day .. you said you felt guilty." As he speaks, Ruth glances up at him quickly, and he is sure she is irritated with him. "Sorry," he adds.

"There's no need to apologise. You're right. I felt guilty because I didn't really love him .. not as he loved me, and not as … he deserved to be loved. It was Nico I loved." She removes her finger from the table, and thrusts both hands in her lap, looking up at him. Again there are tears in her eyes. "It's Nico I miss, and there are times, when the pain of losing him is … unbearable." Ruth takes a tissue from the pocket of her skirt and wipes her eyes. Harry uses every ounce of self control he possesses to remain sitting in his chair. "So you see," she says, once she has shoved the tissue back in her pocket, "the person I blame is myself."

Harry is not sure he has heard her correctly. He frowns, and when Ruth sees his face change, she smiles across the table. "How is it possible for you to have reached that conclusion, Ruth? Surely -"

"Because it's the only one which makes sense."

"To you."

"Of course, to me. This is the conclusion I have come to."

"But .. I was the one who – effectively – had George killed. I could have saved his life had I given Amish Mani the true location of the uranium."

Ruth is shaking her head from side to side. "No, Harry. Had you done that you would have been sent to gaol for treason, then I'd have that on my conscience. Whichever way I view this, I am the common factor throughout."

Harry sits back in his chair, realising that this is one of those times when Ruth has made up her mind, and will not be budged. _She is still my stubborn mule._ "What if we shoulder the responsibility for George equally, Ruth?"

"Why would you want to? Why would you want to feel this bad?"

"Because … I already do .. feel that bad."

"Then … I don't want you to."

He sighs heavily, then lifts his hand to rub his forehead with his fingertips in a familiar gesture. He sees her smiling, and wonders whether she is fit to be returning to work. Perhaps, after all, neither of them are fit to be working. Then there is Ros. For a moment he is overcome by a wearying paralysis. What should he be doing about Ruth? "I suspect that the best remedy for what you describe is to throw yourself into work," he says after a long silence.

"How does that work for you, Harry?"

He twists his mouth to the side in an unspoken _touch_ _é_. He is all talked out, except that he still hasn't said what he came here to say. "Ruth," and when she at last gives him eye contact, he continues, "I came here tonight to apologise for my part in what happened to George. I .. need you to know that nothing which happened that day was personal – to you or to him. I was following protocol. I could not make an exception for .. him .. for you. My only option was to stall for time."

"I know, Harry. I know that now, and I knew that then. I suppose .. that at the time, I needed to blame someone, and .." She breaks eye contact, visibly uncomfortable. "At the time, I wanted to hurt you."

He'd thought as much on the day. He nods, and despite the level of sadness he feels, he smiles across the table at her. "I know," he says. Ruth has clearly said all she wants to say, and he can find no reason for staying. Progress has been made, but it is too soon to be declaring victory. If they are to again work together with the level of trust they'd previously shared, then he and Ruth still have rather a long way to go. "I should go," he says quietly, watching her closely.

"Why?" she asks. "Have I offended you?"

"No, you haven't offended me. On the contrary, you've handed me a life line."

Ruth quickly stands, her eyes darting from him to the half eaten takeaway on the table between them. "I'll make us a cuppa, while you can gather this lot together. The bin's in the kitchen," and with that, she hurries through to the kitchen.

Harry doesn't much want a cuppa. He'd much rather something alcoholic, and the higher the percentage of alcohol, the better, but he is prepared to go along with what Ruth has decided; after all, of late she hasn't had a lot of control over the details of her life. He stands, grabs all the tin foil containers, stacking them one inside the other, and then he takes them into the tiny kitchen, where Ruth is standing before the window, gazing out into the darkness. In front of her on the bench are two cups, and an electric kettle, which makes a low hissing noise as the water heats.

Harry has only just opened the bin, and tossed the containers into it, when he hears an odd sound coming from Ruth. He turns to her to see the fingers of both hands grasping the edge of the bench, her knuckles white. Noting the shaking of her shoulders, he glances at her reflection in the window to see that she is crying. He can do one of several things; he can ignore her, and leave the kitchen, he can begin a light-hearted conversation, hoping to snap her out of it, or he can offer her comfort. For the past three months and more Ruth has had very little comfort in her life, and apart from the occasional alcoholic bender, he has experienced nothing approaching comfort since Ruth left to go into exile three years earlier.

Harry follows his instincts. Very slowly he approaches her, standing directly behind her. When she shows no sign of discomfort, he slides his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. It is as though she had been waiting for him to do just that. Ruth sinks against him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. As her sobs become louder, he presses his cheek against her temple. "Let it out, Ruth. Let it all out," and she does, twisting around in his embrace so that she is facing him, her face pressed against the front of his shirt. He holds her as she cries, one hand pressed against the middle of her back, while his other hand strokes her hair.

Time passes, and he cannot say how long they have been like that, with he holding her while she weeps in the tiny kitchen of her dark flat on a run-down housing estate. He would have been happy to be spending what remaining days he has just standing there, holding her, with her grieving the loss of her whole life, and he atoning for his part in that loss. No amount of comforting Ruth while she cries can expiate his part in George's death, or Jo's death. Death follows him, and yet he still lives. Perhaps this is the reason she is looking to him for comfort. Only the living can provide solace when grieving for the dead.

Eventually Ruth's tears stop, and she nestles quietly against him. He knows he should pull away from her, but he doesn't want to. After a few minutes of silence, he feels her pull her head from his shoulder and lift her eyes to his. "I'd like to stay like this forever," she says, and he nods. He can't argue with that. Her eyes focus on the bare skin of his neck while she continues. "It's not just George, and Jo, and the loss of Nico, you know. It's .. everything. It's my job, it's London, it's the life I had before I left." She rubs the back of her hand across the end of her nose. "It's also you, Harry."

"Me?"

"I lost you when I left London. I turned you down, and then I left."

He nods. They both have a history of losing those they love. "As much as I don't want to leave, I think I should."

They watch one another for the longest moment, while the unspoken swirls around them. "You don't have to leave," she says at last, her voice husky from crying.

"I do. It's too soon for .. what you're suggesting."

Ruth nods, her eyes dropping regretfully to his mouth, and then his shirt front. "I've cried all over your shirt."

"It will wash."

As is usual with them, the barely spoken has been replaced with the mundane, the everyday. Harry notices Ruth's eyes on his lips. He would like nothing more right now than to kiss her, but he doesn't want to be taking advantage of her. Instead, he watches her, and waits. His hesitation pays off. She cups his face in her hands, and then reaches up to place her lips on his. It is a gentle kiss, barely a kiss at all, really. There is no passion, only gratitude .. and love. After so much time and all that has happened, the love is still there, and Harry feels a stirring of emotion in his chest.

He knows it is high time he went home.

Having made the decision, Harry quickly prepares to leave, and Ruth watches while he retrieves his jacket from the back of his chair, and shrugs it on. She accompanies him to the door, and pats his arm as he bids her a formal goodnight, staring into her eyes one last time.

Once in his car, he buckles up, and then glances towards the flat to see Ruth standing at the window of the front room, the curtain pulled aside. He waves, and she waves back, fluttering her fingers. He drives away, with her still standing at the window. Perhaps they have a future after all. He is in no hurry, for now they have all the time in the world.


End file.
